The Diary of RSM Albert O'Balsam, DSC and Bar
One would wish, at this stage, move to crush these scurrilous rumours surrounding my good self and the mysterious disappearance of "Fluffy", our beloved regimental goat.
While it is true that the luscious, pouting Miss Fluffy did accompany me on my trek to save the souls of the many, many sixteen-to-seventeen year old Swedish nymphettes to be found in Madame Inge's Himalayan Finishing School for Sixteen-to-Seventeen Year Old Swedish Nymphettes - where I had the good fortune to be engaged as games mistress - I would go as far as striking down and killing any cur who dare suggest anything untoward happened between myself and me ruminant companion. An act I have done of several occasions in the name of the LORD, making sure that all the negatives were destroyed into the bargain.
However, I am aware that these rumours persist, particularly in the pages of the Himalayan Times, where fearful tales of myself and my caprine friend - clearly the work of SATAN - have led the the local villagers raising a baying hate mob, which, utterly bewildered an' confused due to the large quanitites of mind-alterin' substances required by the ceremonial work, I was forced to quell with me trusty Gatling gun.
I hope this clears up the confusion re: Fluffy. The CO will remember that I did go to great lengths to replace her before me enforced trek up the mountains, and I still have the signed witness reports regarding his good self and Steve, the regimental hamster.
There is still plenty of work to be done saving these unfortunate young ladies, which has provoked a surge of interest from several, dare I say, opportunist volunteers. My simple advice to these unsaved individuals is this: Join the queue, I saw them first.
I should thank my superior officers for their kind offers of assistance in what I see as my GOD-given pennance involving these Scandinavian temptresses.
Orders are orders however, and I am more than willing to shove some in the direction of regimental headquarters, because when you've reached my age, one barely clothed Swedish girl, writhing in baby oil, her moans reaching a peak of ecstasy as I lay hands on her in the ceremony of EXTREME UNCTION, is much the same as any other.
Like all acolytes of THE CRAFT, I insist that young ladies approaching MY INNER SANCTUM are not depilated, but are merely well trimmed in what THE LORD HIMSELF describes as "Brazilian".
I must take leave of you now - Inge is calling - but could the regimental Quartermaster prod a couple of crates of AA batteries in my direction? THE LORD'S work really chews up the power.